


Easy as a Flight Between

by larkscape



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Pern Fusion, Dragonriders, Dragons, Flying, Gen, Impression, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Telepathic Bond, Threadfall (Dragonriders of Pern), Vicchan Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Victor of Telgar Weyr, rider of bronze Makkinth, was a prodigy - barely out of the weyrling barracks and already being groomed for a position as a Wingleader. His daring maneuvers during Threadfall would get him stripped of rank and stuffing firestone sacks or scrubbing pots in the lowest kitchens anywhere else, but Weyrleader Y’kov recognized talent when he saw it and had a reputation for turning the wildest young riders into brilliant tacticians.Victor, though, was the best he’d seen in a long time. He was also the most stubborn.(A Dragonriders of Pern AU! Prior knowledge of Pern not necessary to enjoy this fic.)





	Easy as a Flight Between

**Author's Note:**

> I have easily 8+ other WIPs to be working on, but this bunny bit me and wouldn't let go. Someone said 'Write 100 words of dragons,' to which I said '100 words. Ha. Haha.' and wept quietly.
> 
> Pernese dragons have this in common with poodles: both are basically a cross between a cat and a five-year-old child. Ergo, I give you Makkinth and Vichanth. Potyanith already _is_ a cat, now she just talks.
> 
> I suspect that the intersection of these two fandoms is vanishingly small and have therefore provided a Pern crash course in the bottom notes if you'd like to check it out, but it's not necessary to understand the story.

 

 

“Sing it again?” Yuuri asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, small hands clutching Minako’s skirts.

“Please?” Yuuko added, just as excited. “I want to hear more about Victor!”

“Aren’t you late for lessons?" Minako asked, shaking her head. "Harper Morooka will be wondering where you are. There are more Teaching Ballads than just this one, and more dragonriders’ stories to learn than just Victor and bronze Makkinth’s.” She winked conspiratorially. “They’re not quite as exciting, though. Come by after and I’ll sing it for you again.”

 

* * *

 

Victor of Telgar Weyr, rider of bronze Makkinth, was a prodigy - barely out of the weyrling barracks and already being groomed for a position as a Wingleader. His daring maneuvers during Threadfall would get him stripped of rank and stuffing firestone sacks or scrubbing pots in the lowest kitchens anywhere else, but Weyrleader Y’kov recognized talent when he saw it and had a reputation for turning the wildest young riders into brilliant tacticians.

Victor, though, was the best he’d seen in a long time. He was also the most stubborn.

“At least shorten your sharding name! It’s tradition!” Y’kov roared after his retreating back.

“Shan’t!” Victor sang, carefree, swanning out of the dining hall and back to his weyr and the company of his dragon.

“That boy is going to drive me _between_ ,” Y’kov muttered darkly.

 

* * *

 

“Fort rides on Search!” The call raced through the Hold like a wildfire. Sarleth, Fort Weyr’s senior queen dragon, had a clutch of eggs hardening in the warm sands of the Hatching Grounds, and the Weyr’s dragonriders were collecting likely candidates for Impression to stand before the eggs at the Hatching. Oh, the chance to be a dragonrider!

It wasn’t often that Hasetsu Hold saw dragonriders — a small Hold situated on a bay halfway out to Tillek was not much of an attraction for worldly riders and their majestic beasts, despite the natural hot springs — but Holder Hiroko certainly knew how to make them feel welcome. All the finest dishes were laid out on the long tables in the Great Hall, and the fattest wherries, sweet from their diet of seagrass, turned on roasting spits. Every young person of Searchable age dressed in their Gather best and collected in the courtyard to watch as the dragons appeared in the sky from one blink to the next, slipping from the black cold of _between_ in perfect formation.

Yuuri had always dreamed of being found on Search, taken a-dragonback to Fort Weyr to stand on the hot sands of the Hatching Grounds and have the chance to Impress a dragon of his very own. He was almost too old now, at 16, to be acceptable to the Searching dragonriders, but he’d keep trying until he was turned away. Could he win a bronze like Bimirth, Wingleader P’gen’s dragon? Bimirth, leading the wing in a wide banking curve through the sky above the Hold, was easily recognizable by the Threadscore scarring his left wing membrane, but he was also the largest dragon at Fort Weyr.

Yuuri knew them all by heart. He sang the Naming Ballad with Yuuko so often it was engraved in his throat; the names of all the Fort Weyr dragons and their riders came as easy as breathing to him, and he'd made Harper Morooka teach them the Telgar ballad so he could sing Victor's Weyr as well.

The dragons spiraled lazily down to the courtyard, their riders unfastening riding straps and dismounting one by one so the dragons could take off again for the heights. Yuuri hardly noticed the grit blown into his eyes; he couldn’t look away from the incredible sight of them, the way their powerful wings swept down, their thickly muscled legs kicking off the ground to launch them into the air, the swirling multicolored facets of their eyes.

Some of the other boys were frightened of them, but every single time Yuuri saw dragons, they took his breath away.

These were the creatures that protected Pern from the ravages of Threadfall, chewing firestone and searing Thread out of the air with their fiery breath before the deadly strands could ever reach the vulnerable ground below. Thread would consume anything organic it touched; Yuuri had heard the story of a man who’d been locked outside his Hold during a Fall, and the Thread devoured him so thoroughly that the holders only found his belt buckle.

Thread was merciless, falling in waves of deadly tangles for six hours at a time, and if even a single stand fell through it could, left unchecked, lay waste to an entire hillside — plants and animals alike eaten to nothing, until only bare stone remained. Only three things could kill it: fire charred it to harmlessness, water drowned it, and the icy cold of _between,_ that nowhere place the dragons went through when they winked out to appear elsewhere, froze it into black ash.

And these dragons and their riders braved the skies at every Fall, risking painful Threadscore or death, to keep the holders safe. Yuuri only wished that Holder Hiroko would let him crack the thick metal shutters during a Fall so he could watch the dragons flickering in the sky above the Hold, producing bright orange tongues of flame and disappearing _between_ when a clump of silver Thread got too close to a vulnerable wing, reappearing to swoop and dive after the deadly strands.

It must be _beautiful._ Just seeing the sweep riders coasting overhead, checking the grounds for stray Thread burrows after a Fall while the flamethrower crews below searched on foot, was awe-inspiring — watching the dragons fly in their formations during actual Threadfall would be a sight beyond compare.

 

* * *

 

Brown rider J’ailla approached him shortly after the feast in the Great Hall, her stiff riding jacket slung over one shoulder. Yuuri could scarcely breathe. There was only one reason a dragonrider would come to him like this.

“Yuuri?” she asked, and continued at his confirming nod. “My Winolth says you have a good chance with Sarleth’s latest clutch. Are you ready to go to Fort Weyr?”

 

* * *

 

Weyrleader Y’kov’s bronze dragon Rinilth bugled from the heights to signal the end of the Telgar Games and Victor guided Makkinth down to land in the broad open space near the entrance to the caverns, enjoying the hollering and applause of the entire population of the Weyr. Everyone always turned out to watch the dragonriders compete in feats of flight; even the kitchens took the afternoon off for the event, preparing hearty stews early in the morning and leaving them to simmer for the rest of the day so the cooks could find good vantage points from which to see the death-defying acrobatics of fully-trained dragons.

 _Good work on the roll,_ Victor told Makkinth as the bronze settled to the ground with barely a jolt, _though the last spiral could have been a touch tighter._

 _You are a perfectionist,_ Makkinth replied. _The spiral was just as tight as it needed to be. We still won._ His tone was smug with triumph, and Victor allowed the feeling to swell in his own chest next to the warmth of his dragon’s emotions.

_That’s because you are the best dragon ever hatched, Makkinth. Shall we go claim our prizes?_

_You may go claim yours,_ Makkinth told him loftily. _I will claim mine. The ridgetop belongs to me and no one may argue with me about it for many days._

_Two sevendays, love, and no one argues with you anyway._

_The sun is warm and I am tired from all the spinning. I would like to go sleep on the ridge._ He twisted his long neck to watch Victor with one eye, the facets showing the slow whirl of drowsy satisfaction. _Will you scrub my back this evening?_

Victor smiled fondly and rubbed Makkinth’s neck ridges. _Of course._

 

* * *

 

The heat of the hatching sands beneath his feet fell away as Yuuri watched the bronze dragon, still soaked in egg fluid and mewling piteously, stumble closer on clumsy legs. Was he heading toward Yuuri? Or toward the girl from Southern Boll next to him? Yuuri held himself perfectly still and hoped.

The dragon lifted his wedge-shaped head. Jeweled eyes met Yuuri’s, a scintillating moment of connection, and everything else fell away, too.

 _So this is Impression,_ Yuuri thought distantly. The bond, formed in an instant, that would last a lifetime.

In that moment, Yuuri knew no Harper could ever adequately describe the soul-deep connection between dragon and rider, no matter how many ballads they composed. Yuuri floated on a warm sea of emotion, cocooned in the love of a dragon, _his_ dragon, and knew he’d never be alone again. The bronze’s presence in his mind settled gentle wings around him and held him close, just as Yuuri sank to his knees in the sand and gathered the little wet body into his arms, heedless of the wingtip poking his cheek.

 _I am Vichanth!_ the dragon told him, jubilant. _And you are my Yuuri._

 

* * *

 

Victor absented himself whenever Weyrwoman Lilia’s Primanth started to glow with her mating flight vigor. He’d noticed the first signs last evening as Primanth lay sunning herself in the fading light spilling over the lip of the Bowl and onto the ledge of her weyr, her hide showing an unusual tawny depth of color, and had resolved to be up before the sun and away to the high mountain lake he’d discovered the prior summer to avoid her flight. Becoming Weyrleader held no interest for him, and besides, Primanth likely wouldn’t let any dragon other than Y’kov’s bronze Rinilth fly her anyway. Even if their riders no longer shared a weyr, there was no arguing with the will of a stubborn dragon.

No matter how early he left, though, he could never seem to entirely escape the thickening atmosphere of mating urge at the Weyr. Makkinth, thank the First Shell, never seemed affected beyond a simple wish to stretch his wings, but invariably Victor found himself on edge, nerves tight and temper short. He stuffed a knapsack full of breadrolls from the kitchens in the predawn twilight, his leathers already on and the riding straps thrown over his shoulder, and called for Makkinth to meet him outside the caverns.

 _You are agitated,_ Makkinth observed as he alighted on the stone, tucking his wings back neatly and settling to his haunches.

 _It’s nothing, love,_ Victor replied, stroking across Makkinth’s proffered eyeridge before sorting out the riding straps. He tossed the first over the final two ridges of Makkinth’s sinuous neck and fastened the buckle in front, testing the give of the leather. _I don’t mean to take it out on you. Would you like to visit the lake today?_

_Is it because Primanth is about to fly?_

Victor barked out a strained laugh. _You have no subtlety. Yes, it’s because Primanth’s about to fly. How about that lake?_

Makkinth shook his great head, tossing the chest strap Victor was trying to fasten out of place, and blew hot air into his rider’s hair. His breath still reeked of firestone from the Fall two days prior.

 _Humans are so strange about these things,_ he said. _Do I want to fly Primanth? No. You do not want me to fly Primanth, either. I like the lake, and you like the lake, so we should visit the lake._

Victor smiled and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. Makkinth’s wry observations always managed to knock back Victor’s moods. The bronze offered a refreshingly simple view of the world; dragons didn’t care about Weyr politics, they only cared that they had fresh meat in their bellies and a good supply of firestone for scorching Thread and a convenient rider available for scratching itches — and, occasionally, they cared about mating flights. But not this one, it seemed.

_Maybe we can scrub the firestone stench from your gullet with a wherry before we go. You haven’t fed in a while._

_No, Primanth will scold me if I run the fat off her kills just before her flight._

They flew the long way, no trip _between,_ all the way into the Northern Barrier Range. Makkinth twirled lazily through barrel rolls between sweeps of his massive wings. Victor looped the riding straps around his hands and focused on the wind ruffling his hair beneath the riding cap, the encroaching chill as they headed higher into the mountains not offset enough by the strengthening daylight to keep the cold from seeping into his skin.

They arrived at the lake an hour past dawn. The snow clung to the peaks here for all but a few sevendays out of a Turn, feeding the waters of the lake and the mountain stream that led down from it. Victor let Makkinth splash in the icy water while he soaked up the thin sunlight on the shore, nibbling idly on a breadroll. He whiled away the day and the last vestiges of his tense mood by working through an idea for a new flight pattern that would allow his wing of bronzes to cover wider swathes of the precious forests in Lemos and leave the other wings free to focus on catching Thread higher up. If he twisted _here_ and spun _there..._

 _Victor!_ Makkinth’s voice rang in his head. _Are you going to swim? The water feels very nice._

 _Darling, it’s a bit cold,_ Victor replied. _Even these_ between _-hardened bones aren’t brave enough for that water. You enjoy yourself, though._

Makkinth slapped one wing flat across the surface of the lake, launching a wave that nearly swamped Victor’s wherhide boots. _Stop thinking so much! You need to have fun. Are we flying Thread right now?_

_No, obviously not._

_Then forget about Thread. It will come when it comes and we will char it from the sky like we always do. Your mind is too heavy. I want to enjoy the water._

Victor laughed at Makkinth’s petulant tone. Trust a dragon to remind one to seize the moment; they never gave much care to the future.

He couldn’t quite forget his plans, though. The new maneuver might even reduce injury risk for the rest of his wing, though his own role would be more trying. That was all right; he and Makkinth were up to the challenge.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri kept abreast of the gossip from Telgar Weyr — easy enough to do in the weyrling classes, where a juicy bit of gossip spread faster than a cold in a locked Hall.

“Did you hear?”

“Victor and Makkinth won again!”

“That’s the third Turn in a row, isn’t it? Wow, I wonder when _we’ll_ be able to compete in the Telgar Weyr Games.”

Yuuri scrubbed with the soapsand along Vichanth’s neck ridges, smoothing out the rough patch where he hadn’t oiled thoroughly enough last time. The fledgling dragon rumbled with pleasure beneath his hands, blowing bubbles from his snout in the lake water. His luminous eyes, visible just beneath the ripples and protected by the translucent first lid, swirled with the blue of contentment.

 _Right there, please, scrub harder,_ he told Yuuri. _I itch._

 _Don’t worry, I’ll oil you when we get back to the barracks,_ Yuuri promised. _You keep eating like this and you’ll outgrow your own hide soon enough._

 _My hide grows with me,_ Vichanth said, affronted. _I cannot outgrow it. And I will need the size to keep up with Makkinth._

This Turn, Weyrleader Y’kov had thrown open the Games to the best riders from Igen, Ista, and High Reaches Weyrs, but not one rider in all of Pern was a match for Victor on his bronze Makkinth.

How Yuuri wished he shared Vichanth’s effortless confidence. He longed to fly the same skies as Victor one day.

 

* * *

 

“That was quite a dive, Yuuri,” Weyrleader C’lestino said. “You had barely half a dragonlength to pull out at the bottom. I think you scared five Turns off my life.”

 _I had plenty of space._ Vichanth sounded serenely assured in Yuuri’s mind. Yuuri dropped his head to hide a smile, knowing it would not be appreciated in present company.

“Ah, sorry, Weyrleader.” The dive in question was one of Victor’s moves, which Yuuri and Vichanth picked up at Salenth’s last Hatching when Victor and Makkinth had flown in to see the Telgar fosterlings stand on the Fort Weyr sands. Yuuri had added the sideways flip and swoop at the bottom, though. “It was reckless.”

“It was brilliant. How do you feel about being in charge of a wing?”

 

* * *

 

“When are you going to let me retire?” Y’kov asked with a huff as they left the meeting room.

“You can retire when Primanth decides to stop flying,” Victor glibly replied. “I don’t want your job, Y’kov, stop trying to foist it on me.”

“Maybe I’ll cede to G’orgi instead, eh? How would you like to be under his leadership?”

“This is all wishful thinking anyway,” Victor said, rolling his eyes. “One, you and Rinilth would never let G’orgi’s Analth fly Primanth, and Lilia would strangle G’orgi if he somehow managed it anyway. Two, you’re not going to step down until you’re forced out and the Weyr wouldn’t have it any other way.” He batted his eyelashes in his best pleading look, which was really not as persuasive as he thought it was. “When can we run the Games again? The brown riders are getting bored.”

“You mean _you’re_ getting bored. Four consecutive victories still aren’t enough for you — not that I’m complaining about one of my best Wingleaders keeping his skills sharp.” Y’kov paused at the entrance to his weyr, Rinilth’s bronze bulk visible through the archway. “I’ll speak with Lilia about it.”

He let Victor continue down the hall a few steps before speaking again.

“Makkinth is looking a bit dull lately. Make sure he’s getting what he needs.”

Victor nodded dismissively. Y’kov didn’t like to dwell on it, but he worried about that boy. There were decades left before this Pass ended and Thread retreated to memory over the course of the Interval. Burnout was a dangerous possibility — a Wingleader with no will to lead brought only grief and wounded dragons, an outcome to be avoided at all costs.

At least Y’kov had a barometer. The bond between dragon and rider meant that Makkinth would inevitably show what Victor tried to hide.

Y’kov sighed and mentally assigned himself dragon-watching duty.

 

* * *

 

Victor’s wing had never let a single clump of Thread pass their flame. Not one. Victor had the best riders and the best dragons in his wing — they performed the sharpest tricks at the Games, they flew the lowest sweeps over the forests at Lemos Hold, they wove in the tightest, most daring formations. Watching Victor’s wing fighting Threadfall was like watching smoke curl from a candle wick, all sinuous curves and startling turns, grace and power combined.

Just as soon as the Weyrlingmaster released him from training, Yuri was joining Victor’s wing. He was definitely good enough. Shards, he was better than Victor, even if he rode a green instead of a bronze. Potyanith was more nimble, more graceful, better in every way than Victor’s great brute of a dragon.

 _As long as I still get to sleep on this ridge,_ Potyanith reminded him, her mental tone prim. _I like the way the sun falls here._

 _Of course,_ Yuri replied, scratching her eyeridge and watching the languid blue-green swirl of her faceted eye. _I wouldn’t dream of denying you._

Flaky patches were starting across her shoulder, he noticed — too much growing, too fast. She was already bigger than some of the adult greens in the Weyr and she still had more to go. Yuri needed to oil her tonight.

 

* * *

 

The numbweed, thankfully, did its job admirably; Yuuri could hardly feel the sting of the fresh Threadscore on his arm, though the sting of his failure remained shrill in his mind.

He’d messed up in the Fall today, turning at the wrong moment and catching a clump of Thread with his arm, and it nearly cost Ruatha Hold their northernmost grain field. Yuuri wasn’t unused to the sting of Threadscore — he’d caught more than his fair share of fragments in his time leading Fort’s left-flank bronze wing — but most sizzled on the thick wherhide of his riding jacket and froze to crumbling black when Vichanth popped them _between_ , and the riders under his leadership rarely had even that much. This was Yuuri’s worst score by far.

Yuuri’s wing flew low beneath the leading edge of the Fall, darting back and forth in a zigzag pattern to flame the stubborn mats of Thread the higher wings missed. The only dragons who flew lower were the queens, whose riders wielded carefully-aimed flamethrowers which allowed them to scorch Thread closer to the vegetation at minimal risk.

This time, though, an unfortunate storm front stirred the winds and made the Thread fall in strange patterns, and the other wings missed more than usual. Yuuri, chasing one clump with Vichanth flaming ferociously beneath him, saw motion in the corner of his eye only just in time to feel a new mat of silver Threads burning straight through his riding jacket and into his bicep.

His reaction was instinctive, drilled into him by so many hours of practice above the Weyr heights; as Vichanth roared in surprise and reflected pain, Yuuri caught the fighting straps and wheeled them in a tight spiral on one wingtip, the speed of the turn throwing the Thread free, and with one mind he and Vichanth dropped like a stone between the two startled bronzes flanking them, falling into the frozen deprivation of _between_ in the gap from one heartbeat to the next.

The relief was instantaneous, but the burn of the score and of his shame followed him for the rest of the Fall. V’tun on Malulth, to Yuuri’s right, had to dive for the falling clump of Thread, and it nearly reached the nodding heads of grain below before she seared the last strand.

Adding insult to Yuuri’s injury, the Fall was split, taken over by the High Reaches dragonriders when the leading edge moved north of Ruatha, and Telgar Weyr had loaned out Victor’s wing to supplement High Reaches’ dragons. Which meant Victor had been there to witness the whole sorry event. Victor, the best dragonrider in the skies, the one rider Yuuri most wanted to impress, had instead seen Yuuri’s complete failure.

Fortunately Vichanth hadn’t been scored; if his mistake had hurt his dragon, Yuuri didn’t think he could forgive himself.

He wasn’t worthy to be a Wingleader.

Six days until the next Fall. Yuuri clutched the numbweed-soaked bandage tighter to his arm and tried to think of what to say to Weyrleader C’lestino.

 

* * *

 

“He was amazing, Y’kov! Did you see him?” Victor practically bounced in place, and out on the ledge Makkinth bugled in response to his mood. “The way he spiraled around to keep his dragon’s wings away from the Thread. It was poetry! It was the spiral _I_ invented and he made it _poetry!"_

“Victor,” Yuri seethed, “you’re going to set off every green in the Weyr. Calm down.”

“Oh, Potyanith is just testy,” Victor replied breezily.

 _“You’re_ testy,” Yuri shot back. “You’re like a giant ball of hormones. Potyanith is _justifiably annoyed.”_

“Victor,” Y’kov began, but Victor cut him off.

“When are we doing a training exercise with Fort Weyr? I have to see him again!”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> **A Crash Course in Pern:**
> 
> tl;dr version: Pern = planet of humans and their telepathic fire-breathing dragons battling rainfalls of deadly space fungus directly over the heads of the peasantry, plus feudal politics.
> 
> Long version: Pern is technically a colony planet ( **P** arallel **E** arth, **R** esources **N** egligible) and the dragons are genetically engineered from the native fire lizards (which are exactly what they sound like), but the Pernese lost this history centuries ago and function basically as a feudal society. I'll focus on the dragons, since that's what this story is about.
> 
> Telepathic dragons, upon hatching, bond permanently with a chosen human, and together they fly through the sky to battle deadly acidic space fungus (Thread) that falls like rain in predictable patterns across the surface of the planet. They can teleport, called 'going _between',_ to get to any place the dragon and rider can properly visualize.
> 
> Dragons and their riders live in Weyrs (often the dormant cones of old volcanoes, full of natural caves large enough to admit a dragon), craftspeople are trained and work at the Crafthalls, everyone else lives in Holds.
> 
> Dragons in order of size and rank, from largest to smallest: gold/queen (female), bronze (male), brown (male), green (female), blue (male). I've taken liberties with McCaffrey's strict gender rules for riders (women ride queens, men ride all other colors) because she was weirdly sexist and homophobic and, y'know, screw that. The universe is great fun, the creator was a product of her time but also famously bugfuck crazypants, carry on.
> 
> Each Weyr (of which there are 6, or 7 later in the series) flies over a certain geographical area and protects it from Threadfall. Sometimes a Fall covers multiple jurisdictions, in which case they hand off to the other Weyr(s).
> 
> Among the (usually) multiple queen dragons in a Weyr there is one senior queen, and her rider is the Weyrwoman (head boss of the Weyr). When a queen dragon rises for a mating flight, all the bronzes (and browns and blues, too, if they can keep up, but they usually don't bother) try to fly her; in the case of the senior queen, the rider of whichever dragon catches her becomes the Weyrleader (other head boss of the Weyr, in charge of the fighting wings that fly against Thread).
> 
> There are a lot of political machinations that aren't relevant to this fic involving Weyrleaders and Lord Holders and Mastercraftsmen, la-di-da, Masterharper Robinton is and will always be my favorite fictional musician/diplomat/hilarious old dude. I'm leaving out a lot, but this is a quick-and-dirty crash course, so whatever. The Long Interval! Harpers! The Red Star! Grubs on the Southern Continent! Time travel!
> 
> 'Efficiency!' I bellow in my best Mastersmith Fandarel voice.
> 
> In conclusion: Pern.


End file.
